Is it, technically, wrong to make a meal out of potato pancakes? I know it’s traditional for Rosh Hashana and all, but we’re not Jewish, and when you think about it, basically it amounts to eating french fries. For dinner.
Oh, well. I remember when sometimes dinner consisted of three beers and a peanut-butter sandwich. Sometimes it was peanut butter three nights in a row. Ah, poverty. In my earliest salad days, I would cash my paycheck on Friday and ask the teller for $5 in quarters. I would put these in a decorative purse that hung on the wall of my apartment. Every morning, I’d take four quarters with me; this was bus fare at 50 cents each way. No matter how tight money got by the end of the week — and it always got tight — at least I’d be able to get to work. Payday was Friday.
I hadn’t been at my first job long when a new vice president was hired. One of his first acts was to significantly boost newsroom salaries, to head off any union activity at the pass. My salary went up 30 percent in a year or two; suddenly, I didn’t have to hoard my $5 in quarters. I could buy a round of beers. I could go on vacation and have a savings account. I didn’t have to live on peanut butter from Wednesday through Friday.
In other words, without even meeting him, he had a significant beneficial effect on my life. He only stayed at the paper a few years before his career took him to bigger and better things. Earlier this summer he was charged with possession of child pornography. One more turn of the wheel.
Not much happened today; can you tell? The high point was when I found my watch, missing for five days. I’d looked everywhere — under every bed, behind every table, at every place I could have possibly taken it off. I checked in all my pants pockets, in bags I might have touched. I was thisclose to putting an ad in the paper, on the chance it might have fallen off my wrist during a bike ride and ended up on the street somewhere. I knew this would be a waste; there’s no way I could have lost it that way without noticing but hey — it was stone gone.
Today it turned up in the basement, in a wad of dirty laundry. No. Idea. How it got there. Of course I wondered if this was the beginning of Alzheimer’s, if the next step will be putting the sugar in the refrigerator and going out for milk, ending up in North Dakota.
If so, I’ll let you know.
This entry may be the first, distant warning sign, eh?
So, then, bloggage:
I have staunchly avoided having an opinion about Cindy Sheehan. I just…don’t have one, except this: Women whose sons are killed on the battlefield get a free pass from me. If they want to dye their hair purple or start wearing push-up bras or write 1,500-page screeds or go straight Job — shaving their head with a potsherd and sitting in the dust? Fine with me. And I don’t care if she got arrested for mooning the Pope, until the frat houses are emptying and the College Republicans hanging out a sign that says, “closed for staff shortages due to enlistment,” no one else gets to say anything about her to me, either.
Yep, she appears to have gone a little cuckoo. What would you do?
Would you believe there’s a swingers’ club in Fort Wayne, Indiana? There is. The bad news: Check out that wallpaper.